


Performance Review Time

by SStar



Series: The trials and tribulations of the British Government [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Abuse of British politicians, BAMF Mycroft, BBCSherlockheadcanon, British Politics, Gen, Mycroft IS the British Government, POV Mycroft Holmes, Snark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-19
Updated: 2014-03-19
Packaged: 2018-01-16 08:39:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1339060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SStar/pseuds/SStar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by BBC Sherlockheadcanon tumblr:<br/>www.bbcsherlockheadcanon.tumblr.com/image/78229382262</p>
<p>#3370: An exhausted Mycroft once mistook the deputy PM for one of his minions and sent him for tea. The deputy PM is terrified of Mycroft so did as he was asked.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Performance Review Time

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: all characters belong to ACD, Moffat, Gatiss and the BBC. I own nothing. 
> 
> Unbeta'd, a little unedited - all mistakes are my very own.

Mycroft Holmes _was_ the British Government. The ordinary man or woman in the street did not know this, nor did they need to.

They had their elected Members of Parliament – their politicians – so worried about their approval ratings and desire to be in power, a revolving door of members who temporarily sit in their self-envisioned positions of power in the Cabinet. The greatest expression of freedom, the right to vote in the general election every five years, such a distraction and disruption to the actuality of getting work done.

Once over, the winners and losers settled and took up their arms for the duration. It suited Mycroft and it suited the government that the people looked upon their elected officials for guidance, leadership and challenge; the Prime Minister, Deputy Prime Minister, the Speaker of the House, Leader of the Opposition, Chancellor of the Exchequer, and sometimes even the Mayor of London.

What the public did not see is that as in life comes the certainties of death and taxes, for these selected politicians also came the certainty of their annual performance review undertaken by the man known as the British Government himself.

These desperate men and women tried many tactics to delay the inevitable; from a sudden crisis forcing rescheduling to a pre-arranged clinic in their local office, or god forbid they had to postpone their appointment to attend the Chamber for a debate that didn’t revolve around their self-interest of a pay rise in direct contrast to the men and women they represented. Thankfully all knew better than to cancel the appointment although only the foolish attempted to delay more than once.

It amused him that the so-called political elite were terrified of their annual review, of little ol’Mycroft Holmes, although it amused his very old friend even more. But it was a fact that terrified they were.

Sir Edwin had caught him only two weeks ago to confirm whether the reviews had dropped into the diaries. It was the usual time of year and therefore yes, had been the matter-of-fact response – thus making the older smirk. It seemed that the rumours mill had started with Mycroft painted as the devil incarnate. Stories of recent years past, of those unfortunate souls, amongst whose ranks included an ex-Prime Minister, who were found not meeting the acceptable levels of competence, credibility or integrity and had disappeared into the ignominy of the many grey shadowed nameless and ill-fitting suits that skulked in the dark, damp corners of the Palace of Westminster.

There was a misconception amongst the MPs that Mycroft enjoyed holding the annual reviews; that he took the opportunity to ridicule, berate and chastise the men and women before him. The truth of the matter was that Mycroft hated the performance reviews just as much as the unfortunate soul on the other side of the table. That he had to endure the platitudes, self-interests transparently disguised as change and excuses for poor planning, development and execution. The words and sentiment that he had shared with his little brother following the Serbia extraction – _the noise, the people_ – were applicable to this situation.

It seemed to be a particular shade of torture that the performance reviews were spread across a three week period. The schedule set out in such a way to maximise the nervous anticipation and dread of the recipients, but unfortunately would also prove to test his self-control and resilience to the limit. Oftentimes he wished that his diary was set up so that he could handle all the reviews in a day, not that Mycroft was even remotely stupid enough to ever express that thought out loud.

The smart people knew keeping any and all personal – and in Mycroft’s case – executive assistants happy was the key to a smooth functioning office. After all, no one wanted a repeat of the _2008 day of inaction_ as it was commonly referred to amongst those who were impacted at the time.

Mycroft took what small comfort he could in the knowledge that he could escape to the solitude of the Diogenes or the comfort of his own home at the conclusion of each appointment. As he prepared for his next appointment, another performance review to be endured, he wondered whether any of the current cabal of political leaders realised that the one true impact of their annual performance reviews was the consideration of any future application to become a member of the Diogenes Club.

 

* * *

 

Mycroft did not shout. Not unless the idiots that called themselves Members of Parliament were about to do something utterly idiotic again. He was almost certain his wrath following the expenses scandal would ring in certain individual’s ears for many more years to come. No, he was a man who was above the crassness of shouting. Sometimes, however, he did find he had to project his voice.

“Andrea.” A sound that deserved a period, not an exclamation. Because the British Government does not shout.

His executive assistant promptly entered his temporary office. “Sir?”

“I’m terribly sorry to ask, my dear, but the tea service requires a refresh, please. Can you get one of the considerable number of assistants that seem to wander these corridors, one capable of the simple task of brewing a traditional pot of tea, to organise a fresh pot immediately?” Mycroft pleaded.

“Of course, sir,” his EA replied. “A decent cup of tea is rather a necessity at this time of year and more so especially after the incident last night.”

Mycroft gave into the desire to rub his forehead and eyes with his right hand. “Can you add a meeting with both the Heads of Five and Six this week?” he asked. “I think it’s high time I had a conversation with them about their protocols.”

Andrea nodded as she tapped away at her phone. “It’s not that I’m complaining, sir, and national security issues take priority after all. It’s just … well five times in the past fortnight is really all too much; especially when Five and Six can only find ghosts in their systems rather than any actual triggers.”

Mycroft inclined his head but only partly in agreement. “Hence the meeting,” he pointed out. “The ghosts, on the other hand, I suspect are anything but.”

“I thought the consensus was they were just co-inci-“

“The universe is rarely so lazy, my dear,” Mycroft interrupted.

Andrea looked back at him in exasperation. Mycroft couldn’t chastise her since she’d been up half the night, like him, calling in all manners of personnel into the offices to interrogate the security, agent and intelligence tracking systems whilst Mycroft had been reviewing their analysis outputs to find the key to unlocking the puzzle. “Perhaps I can get you some lunch?” she asked politely.

Mycroft considered it before declining. “Not enough time before the next meeting.”

“You know your brother will only blame me if you’re cranky,” Andrea pointed out.

Mycroft stifled a fond smile. “He’s in Bristol on a case, I doubt he’ll realise I missed one meal.”

“He always knows and you’re not the one who has to handle him when he’s being prissy about you,” his assistant replied before flushing as she realised what she’d said.

Mycroft felt a touch of sympathy; the previous night adding more weight to their fatigue, and chose to change the subject. “To whom should I place the blame for the annual nightmare that is the annual performance reviews, the first of which is today?”

Andrea coughed in a rather lame attempt to hide a giggle. “That would be Her Majesty, sir.”

“Ah,” Mycroft played along, appreciative the moment of levity from the drollness of the day so far. “Perhaps wise not to repeat that comment in esteemed company. Perhaps you might like to share your observations?”

“Overall sub-par levels of productivity although the spin-machine appears to be exempt from that, ill feelings between most members of the Coalition, several key posts filled through nepotism rather than ability,” Andrea shuddered with the last comment, a sentiment that Mycroft shared but refused to display.

“The Coalition?”

“Rumours of disagreements,” Andrea clarified, as she tapped at her phone before looking back up at Mycroft. “Nothing too sensational; stories of opposition prep, notes on disagreements about policy, political backstabbing. The usual I’m afraid.”

“How boring indeed,” Mycroft replied. “Any my next appointment is with?”

“I’d best get on that tea service refresh,” Andrea prompted. “I imagine you’ll be wanting a cup before the Deputy Prime Minister gets here.”

With a sympathetic smile Andrea left the room, presumably to find one of the many people that littered the building and seemed to do little of any practical use for the British public, to organise the tea. As he waited on the return of his EA or a freshly brewed pot of tea, his attention returned to the stack of intelligence reports from the previous night and his pen flew across the pages with his analysis and thoughts for further enquiries.

It was a while later, certainly long enough to brew a mediocre pot of tea and time enough that he’d identified evidence of a traitor involved in Six’s operations in Poland and Austria and increased chatter directly related to the high inflow of cash by Russian nationals into the London financial centre, when he realised someone – _not Andrea, no tell-tale clacking of high heels_ – stood hesitating at his office door.

“For god’s sake, do I need to instigate an efficiency review at the Downing Street offices?” Mycroft snapped, without looking up from the latest report on Five’s activity within UK borders. “Is it so difficult to make a simple cup of tea?”

Mycroft registered the sound of footsteps quickly scurrying away and let out a sigh as he added further notes in the report for Andrea’s attention. Not a minute later, Mycroft heard the same footsteps approach and enter his office and place something – _cheap, artificial_ – upon the corner of his desk, drawing his attention away from his intelligence reports since he was expecting a tray, or at the very least a china cup. He blinked. No, definitely not a tea service, nor a cup.

_Brown. Plastic. Offensive._

His eyes narrowed as they rose from the machine-made tea sitting on his desk to the man who had brought it in, shuffling his weight from one foot to the other. _Ah, the Deputy Prime Minister has finally chosen to grace me with his presence._

There was a confusion of hands and fingers as the politician flitted between waving them at the tea and tucking them into his trouser pockets. “You asked for tea,” he announced.

Mycroft delicately picked up the hot plastic cup and dropped it into the small office bin at the side of his desk. “That _affront_ to taste buds bears no resemblance to a civilised cup of tea.”

This seemed to fluster the man even more. “Oh, well. I see, sorry?”

“Perhaps you’d like to take a seat Deputy Prime Minister?” Mycroft suggested although the tone made it clear it was a command. “Make yourself comfortable.” The man sat down opposite Mycroft but continued to shift in his seat. Mycroft wondered how a man, not much older than himself and a key member of Her Majesty’s Government, could be so uneasy, so _unaccountably_ scared of Mycroft. “I don’t bite,” Mycroft remarked innocently.

Before Mycroft could continue, or the Deputy PM could reply there was a knock on the door – the long awaited tea Mycroft hoped for had finally arrived. He took a minute to fix himself a proper cup of tea before sitting back down at the desk, letting the man stew in the silence of the room as he set aside the thick intelligence file he’d been working on and picked up a much thinner file which contained the Deputy Prime Minister’s self-assessment for the past year. A quick glance was all he needed.

“You’ve rated your own performance this past year as ‘Good’ I see,” Mycroft started. “Perhaps you’d like to talk about why you consider that a suitable rating for yourself?”

The politician began to speak and Mycroft very quickly put up the pretence of interest and attention, nodding here and there while he mentally engaged his mind to more important matters. Finally the Deputy PM came to an end to his narrative on strengths and successes, having spent an extra three minutes on achievements that Mycroft didn’t feel was quite justified.

“I see,” Mycroft replied, looking the other man over and there was the hint of panic in those eyes. “Perhaps you’d like to explain in more detail about how you have and will retain the trust of the British public?”

The man had barely got started on his contribution to tax policy and his party’s stance on Europe when Mycroft interrupted. “All fascinating I’m sure, but with the European Parliament and the General Election due in the not too distant future, perhaps you’d like to explain how you plan to address the disenfranchised British public in relation to your party, and provide supporting evidence of how will be supporting Queen and Country in the next term when all the signs point to a massive haemorrhage of voter support for you and your party? I’d be surprised if the party returns with even forty percent of the current number of MPs.”

Mycroft stopped as he felt his phone buzz. Pulling it out he saw he had a message. _You should eat a sandwich. You’re cranky when you skip meals. SH_

He tapped out a quick reply. _Did Andrea tattle on me? MH_

As he pressed ‘send’ Mycroft realised the Deputy PM was silent and when he deigned to look up, he realised the man was pale, sweating and unable to get any words out if the flapping mouth was of any indication. “Would you like a drink?”

No response. But he did get another message. Deciding to leave the other man in the room in his internal, if misplaced, terror, he checked his phone. _I wouldn’t want to reveal all my tricks. Andrea will get you a snack – terrifying political busy-bodies is only fun when you have someone there who can appreciate it. SH_

_The Deputy PM is just sitting here – saying nothing. M_

_Oh dear – what did you say? SH_

_Essentially he’ll be lucky to have a party in eighteen months’ time. Perhaps a bit too much? MH_

_Wouldn’t know. Politics is boring. Am sending Andrea in. See you later. SH_

There was a perfunctory knock on the door before Andrea slipped into the room, a wrapped something in her hand. She approached his desk and passed him the snack, his little surprisingly-thoughtful little brother who constantly neglected to tend to his own nutritional needs when on a case, and wasn’t that just a little hypocritical. “From Sherlock, sir,” Andrea confirmed unnecessarily as she glanced at the third person in the room, who was rocking gently in his chair.

“I appear to have broken the Deputy PM,” Mycroft commented apologetically, with a wave to the still-silent man on the other side of the desk. “Could you perhaps escort him back to his own office? I’m sure they’ll be able to set him to rights. Probably play a loop of his party political broadcasts to reboot his cognitive abilities.”

Andrea lips twisted as she tried to hold back a smirk. “I hear that the public is more likely to watch and remember shows like TOWIE or Jeremy Kyle than a PPB.”

“Who? On second thoughts I am certain I do not want to know. Dear lord,” Mycroft groaned. “And we _let_ them vote?”

“I’m afraid so,” Andrea confirmed before turning to the politican. “Right, Mr Deputy Prime Minister, if you’d like to come with me,” she said as she ushered the man to his feet. “I imagine this will feel just like a bad dream in a few days tie and you’ll be glad your review barely took fifteen minutes, sir.”

As his EA and the Deputy PM left his office, Mycroft picked up his pen as he flipped to the end of the annual review file and found the appropriate section for his own comments.

_Past year’s review rating – unsatisfactory._

_Individual may require the services of a therapist due to signs of delusions and self-confidence. Shows evidence of delicate disposition and inability to accept deductions of future events as a result of current incompetence. Works well with others but can be subsumed by opposing views far too often, a disadvantage in a coalition. Will need to prepare individual for high levels of stress and test reactions to challenge and bad news; plan to be put in place by mid-June. Individual unlikely to rise to further prominence or to add value to British public so investment in development will be reduced appropriately within 18 months._


End file.
